


Of Collateral Damage and Things Lost

by OtherThingsToDo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:42:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherThingsToDo/pseuds/OtherThingsToDo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have renamed this story - it was called "Dog Tags", but it took itself in a different direction, so there you are.  That's the problem with a WIP, it's wily.</p>
<p>Set immediately post TRF, John is not taking Sherlock's suicide well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving Out

John climbed the stairs of 221B slowly, mechanically; forcing his legs to lift his feet one step at a time, his cane quietly thumping on every other stair.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight, although he knew she was home. He was certain she was hiding in her flat, not wanting to intrude on – or perhaps not wanting to witness – his grief.

Well, he couldn’t blame her for that. Very few people could stand to be around him lately – not many tried.

He had come to pack up his belongings and take them to his new flat. The thought of living at Baker Street without Sherlock made him physically ill. Just the thought of seeing the place now was sending icy cold waves of nausea through his body.

Reaching the landing, he couldn’t bring himself to make the turn to face the final six steps up into their rooms. He felt the first anxious pangs of an impending panic attack as he tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to take long, slow breaths as he placed a bracing hand against the wall.

' _Come on soldier. You can do this. You’ve certainly done worse_ ,' He thought. But had he? Had anything actually been worse than this - this final visit to the only real home he could ever remember having?

He’d seen death and destruction…lots of it. And some of it happened to people he knew, people he considered friends. But this. This was exponentially worse than any of that. The destruction in Afghanistan was expected – horrific, but just a part of war. He had no real role in it, was not the cause of any of it. Nothing he could have done would have prevented it, certainly.

But this. Ah, this was different. His best friend was dead and he felt…. What? Hollow? Empty? Yes, certainly those; but mostly he felt guilt – a remorse so strong it stole sleep from him, took his appetite and sapped his strength.

He had failed Sherlock somehow. Confused thoughts tangled with each other in his mind. One moment he was kicking himself for not spotting the warning signs of an impending suicide – he was trained in that type of thing, damnit.

The next he was convinced the mad detective had faked the whole thing. But no, there would be clues. Sherlock wouldn’t leave him like that. If it had been fake he would have contacted John within a day or two – wouldn’t he?

He certainly would have left clues for him to follow. Was he too stupid and slow to see them? Or was he just wishing there were clues so Sherlock wouldn’t be dead?

No, his friend was dead and he wasn’t and wasn’t that just a kick in the gut.

' _OK_.' He took a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out through his mouth with a quiet whoosh. ' _Soldier u_ p.' Steeling himself, he pushed open the door, eyes sweeping slowly across the beloved space, taking in the remains of the life he had been living until three weeks ago.

Nothing had been touched. Sherlock’s desk was littered with papers, his violin carefully placed atop everything else, a light sheen of dust already starting to dim its burnished patina.

As his eyes reached Sherlock’s chair he nearly stopped breathing. A figure sat there, features indistinguishable in the dim light. For a breathless moment John’s heart leapt – Sherlock!

“Hello John,” the figure said softly.

“Shit, Mycroft! What the hell do you want?” John was caught off balance, unexpectedly confronted with the one man who might be even more guilty of Sherlock’s death than himself. He hated Mycroft nearly as much as he hated himself.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, please forgive me,” he said, rising from the chair. “I find we have some business to discuss and I thought I would do you the courtesy of coming to you, rather than having you brought to me.”

“Yeah, well thanks for small favors, I guess. What business do we have?”

“You are moving out?”

“I can’t… be here. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“I understand. Any assistance you require will be afforded you. There is quite a lot of”…. Mycroft paused as his eyes swept the flat with bemused distaste… “well, let us just say there is a lot to be moved.”

“I’m only taking my personal things.”

The elder Holmes cocked his head and looked inquiringly at John. “You are aware that Sherlock bequeathed you all his belongings and a large sum of money in his will?”

“Of course I am. But I’m not particularly comfortable with that, and I just can’t deal with it right now.”

“Quite right.” Mycroft said softly, looking at John with a mixture of pity and respect. “I suspected you would feel that way. Please feel free to leave anything here that you wish. The rent has been paid for the next twelve months and Mrs. Hudson will occasionally pop in to dust, though clearly she has not followed through with that part of the arrangement as yet.” His eyes swept the dusty room.

“Dust is eloquent,” John whispered, staring at the violin.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, sorry…nothing,” John said with a little shake of his head, trying to refocus on the conversation he was reluctantly having with Mycroft Holmes. “Why would you pay the rent? What do you care about his things? Why not just have them thrown out or boxed up and put in storage?”

“Well, they are now your things, John. I would like to do you a kindness. You are suffering, clearly; and I may have played a small part in that. It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, you think?” John spat out through clenched teeth, swinging from quiet sadness to raging fury in the blink of an eye.

' _The arrogance of this man_ ,' He thought. ' _He sold his own brother to the Devil, driving him to suicide and he has the nerve to say he MAY have played a SMALL part? Damn him to Hell!_ '

“Sherlock’s dead and it’s your fault,” he said venomously. “Yeah, I think it is the bloody least you could do. Now, get out, I think our ‘business’ is completed.”

“Of course.” Mycroft took a few steps towards the door, pausing when he drew level with John but keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. “I know you have no interest in hearing me express remorse, so I will spare you that.”

“But please know that, should you require any assistance with….” He faltered slightly, his voice dropping to a pained whisper, “well, with anything at all, that you can rely on me to render it.”

John knew if he made eye contact with Mycroft now he would either break down in sobs or punch him in the nose, so he simply nodded once, turning to face the mantel

He heard Mycroft take one hesitant step and pause. In the mirror, John could see that Mycroft remained facing the doorway as he spoke. “Sherlock cared for you very deeply.”

John uttered a small, strangled sound. He had been aiming for a snort of derision, but even to him it sounded more like a sob.

Being possibly even less capable of handling emotional displays than his brother, Mycroft remained frozen in place for a fraction of a second before quietly walking down the stairs and softly closing the door behind him.


	2. Packing Up

It didn’t take John long to pack everything he wanted to take with him.

 

            Harry had offered to come with him to help, but he didn’t think he could stand her watching him and vacillating between feeble attempts to comfort him and lashing out at Sherlock and his selfishness while he worked.  Why couldn’t she just leave him alone?

 

            Besides, he certainly didn’t need help with two suitcases and a duffel, which was all it took to collect his belongings.

 

 A life in the military meant he didn’t have much in the way of personal affects and he hadn’t accumulated much after moving into Baker Street.  The annoying Consulting Detective had had enough junk for two flats, he certainly didn’t need to contribute any more.

 

As he gave the room a brief once-over to make sure he hadn’t missed anything he might actually want his eye caught on a small lockbox shoved to the back of the top shelf of his closet.

 

_Oh yeah, mustn’t forget that,_ he thought bitterly.  The box contained the numerous medals and ribbons he had been awarded for his service and valor, along with his old dog tags and discharge documents.

 

He fumbled the box as he pulled it down and it hit the floor, popping open and scattering some of the contents on the floor.

 

_Damn it!  Why was the thing unlocked?  Why have I even kept this crap?  What good was any of it?  All that training as a doctor and then as a soldier and I couldn’t even keep my best friend alive._

He felt the familiar ache welling up in his chest, threatening to blossom into full-blown sobs as his mind replayed Sherlock’s last moments – the phone call, the desperate plea for John to stay put and John actually – stupidly - doing it. 

 

_What an idiot_ , he chastised himself for the millionth time.  _I should have seen it coming.  I should have known something was terribly wrong when he sent me off to see to Mrs. Hudson alone.  He was so right.  I saw but I did not observe._

He quickly scooped up the spilled items, not really looking at them, and stuffed them back in the box before tucking it into the last suitcase and zipping it closed.

 

Pausing briefly in the sitting room, John took one last look around the familiar flat, memories of Sherlock flooding his mind.  He chuckled grimly as he took in the bullet hole pocked smiley face on the wall and the Cluedo board still pinned to the wall – left there as a reminder of why they didn’t play board games after that first ill-fated attempt.

 

The skull leering at him from the mantel was too much though, and he quickly tore his eyes away from it, landing instead on the Union Jack throw pillow.  The pillow belonged to Sherlock even though it had early on become a fixture in John’s chair.

 

Without giving himself time to change his mind, he quickly scooped it up and stuffed it in the top of the duffel bag. 


	3. Missing

Missing

 

            “This is ridiculous,” John huffed at Harry.  “I don’t want to go out.”

 

His sister had become annoyingly solicitous since Sherlock’s death, often dropping by unexpectedly with pastries or dinner to try to get him to eat.  As a doctor he knew he wasn’t eating enough, but, dammit, it was none of her business.

 

            “No, what is ridiculous is you holing up in this depressing dump of a flat and acting like you’re the one that died!  It’s been three months for God’s sake!”

 

            “So?” he turned on his older sister angrily.  “I didn’t realize there was a time limit on grief.  Or perhaps I should follow your shining example and drown my sorrows in a whiskey bottle like you did when Clara left you.”

 

            “That’s a low blow, Johnny,” Harry replied, obviously more hurt than angry.

 

            _OK.  Not good.  Not good.  It’s not her fault.  I’m just too tired to deal with this crap,_ he thought before saying, “Fine.  Yeah, I’m sorry.  Just leave me alone.  I don’t want to go out.”

 

            Harry had spent the last few days trying to convince John to attend a fundraising dinner with her for a group that worked with homeless veterans, something that John would once have cared deeply about.

 

            “Please, John.  I understand.  Really, I do.  It’s killing me to see you like this.  Just….please.”

 

            John sighed deeply, scrubbing his hands over his face a few times

 

            Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?  At first the press had hounded him every time he went out, even following him to work where, thankfully, building security turned them away.  At least they had when John went to work.  After a few weeks he quit.  The effort was too much. 

 

            His bank account always seemed to have money in it, though – more than just his military pension would explain.  He just assumed Mycroft had transferred Sherlock’s bequest without bothering to tell him. 

 

Lately he spent most of his time watching crap telly.  Well, the telly was on, not that John actually registered much of what he saw.

 

            He had lost weight.  Without a too-skinny consulting detective to nag into eating, he himself had fallen out of the habit of eating regular meals.  Besides, everything he ate tasted like dust.

 

            What few friends he had rarely saw him. Greg Lestrade called regularly and they got together about once a week, but always at John’s flat.  The first few times he had been persuaded to visit a nearby pub, but those nights had ended with a morosely drunk John being practically carried home by Greg.  John’s flat was just easier – Greg could just throw a blanket over him where he fell and leave him to it.

 

            John genuinely liked Greg, although their relationship had been a little rocky immediately after… well, just after.  Moriarty’s lies had fallen apart pretty quickly, thanks in large part to Greg’s practically round-the-clock efforts.

 

            Of course by then the press paid little attention.  With Sherlock dead and Moriarty nowhere to be found, the story quickly lost the public’s interest.

 

            “Alright, I’ll go,” John reluctantly told his bossy big sister.  “But please don’t make me stay longer than I’m comfortable with, yeah?”

 

            Harry’s face lit up as she exclaimed.  “It’s a deal.  I know you can’t wear your uniform, but maybe you should put on your medals, you know?  Let them know you’re one of them?”

 

            “I don’t think…” John started but reconsidered as he saw the disappointed expression blooming on Harry’s face.  “Oh, OK then.”

 

            “Great!  Now go get changed.  I’ll make myself comfortable out here.”

 

            John made his way to his bedroom and swiftly changed into his one and only suit.  The last time he’d worn it had been on the day of Sherlock’s funeral.  At the thought his chest constricted.   _No!  Stop it.  Do not go there now.  Try to pull it together for Harry’s sake.  You can break down later tonight – as usual._

            With slightly shaking hands John tied his necktie, taking deep calming breaths all the while.  When he finished he opened the drawer and removed the box containing his medals.

 

            _That’s odd.  Where are my I.D. tags?_ He wasn't even supposed to have them in the first place, but then he wasn't supposed to have his gun either, was he? Things happen on the battlefield - things get misplaced. And sometimes they turn up again with a little help from your mates. He rummaged around in the box but the metal tags on their chain were clearly not there.  _Damn.  They must still be in my bedroom at Baker Street.  How did I miss them? Maybe I kicked them under the bed without realizing it._

            Putting the lost tags out of his mind, John collected the medals he wanted for the evening and went back to Harry to ask her assistance in putting them on.

 

\----------------- 

 

            That night, Sherlock found himself huddled in a dark, dirty alley keeping watch on the house he was positive hid one of Moriarty’s hit men.

 

            The nights had grown cold in Edinburgh, but he wouldn’t let the dread of yet another night spent shivering outdoors deter him.  The sooner he unraveled Moriarty’s web, the sooner he could go home.

 

            And, oh, how he wanted to go home.  _Just a little longer.  Only a few more to catch and I’ll be done,_ he thought as he pulled his coat collar up a little higher _. I hope John hasn’t done anything to my violin.  Probably wouldn’t.  Sentiment._

As he huddled in on himself between some rubbish bins, trying to shield himself somewhat from the wind, his hand snaked inside his coat and under his shirt, coming to rest on two round metal plates suspended from a chain around his neck.

 

            Eyes trained on the house searching for any sign of his prey, Sherlock slowly ran his thumb back and forth over John Watson’s tags.


	4. Chapter 4

Four months after Sherlock’s death and, if anything, John was worse. 

 

The limp was no worse, having reverted to its pre-Sherlock level, along with the tremor in his hand, within a week of the detective’s death.

 

But he moved through life like a wraith.  Old acquaintances, when they noticed him at all, whispered to each other about the way he seemed to just simply exist.  No spark of his old dry humor lit his eyes.  His military bearing and confidence was gone.

 

John was aware of all this.  How could he not be?  He knew he wasn’t well but couldn’t be arsed to care much about it most of the time.

 

His one real effort was his regular nights with Greg Lestrade, even though they still ended with John passed out and Greg letting himself out.  The two had grown closer over the last few months.  Initially drawn together by their mutual grief and mystification over Sherlock’s loss, they found they had quite a bit in common.

 

But even a good friend was not as good as a best friend, and he had lost his forever, partly through his own fault.

 

His nightmares were back – only much, much worse.  Where once his dreams had been filled with heat and sand and young men screaming, the only screams now were his own as he watched his best friend plunge to the pavement. 

 

Every night.  Every.  Bloody.  Night.

 

His therapist had prescribed sleeping pills when he told her about his new nightmares.  They didn’t work, so he didn’t bother taking them.  But he pretended they did so he could get refills, carefully accumulating enough before stopping his weekly visits altogether.

 

The sleeping pills were stowed in his nightstand with his gun.  He was still undecided which he would use when he finally decided he had had enough.  Somehow he drew comfort from the fact that he had options.  So far, just knowing they were there was enough.  But not for much longer.

 

For his part, Greg enjoyed spending time with John.  Well, maybe enjoy wasn’t the best term for it, since John always ended up sad and drunk.  But they understood each other.  They had fought the good fight and cleared Sherlock’s name – well, mostly he had, but John was supportive when no one else was.

 

It had been shockingly easy.  Moriarty’s deceit didn’t hold up to close scrutiny.

 

This night was just like any other they had spent together.  John bought the beer this time, so Greg brought some greasy, salty snacks and a DVD of a truly horrible adventure movie with lots of explosions and large-breasted women.

 

With no plot to speak of, the movie didn’t really require their full attention and they found themselves drinking and talking and sitting on the floor at the coffee table with their backs against the couch while the film played. 

 

“Do you ever wonder if Moriarty is still out there?”, John asked.

 

“If he is, he’s keeping awfully quiet.  It just doesn’t make sense.  You would think that with his greatest enemy out of the way he’d be free to launch a massive crime spree.  It’s like he’s vanished from the face of the earth.”

 

“Sometimes I wonder if Sherlock actually got to him first, before…”

 

“Don’t, John.  Please.  Let’s not rehash it again.  It’s not healthy to relive it over and over again.  We’re just never going to know what the mad bastard was thinking at the end.  I guess he just snapped.”

 

With a shaky hand, John poured himself a shot of the whiskey he had moved on to when the beer ran out.  “No.  He didn’t snap.  I talked to him.  He was perfectly lucid.  Hell, he planned it all – even recruited at least one other person to help him.  Someone called me with the false report on Mrs. Hudson.”

 

            John ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a breath that was part laugh and part sob.  “The man was a freaking genius!  Who knows what he had planned?  Maybe he never intended to have to jump.  I don’t know.  All I know is it’s my fault.”

 

“How on earth do you figure that?!  Moriarty was the one out to get him.”

 

“I failed him, Greg.  I should have seen.  I was closer to him than anyone and I didn’t see.  He tried so hard to teach me to observe rather than just see – and in the end, I couldn’t”

 

The alcohol was taking its toll.  With his family history John was not a heavy drinker, saving it for when he and Greg got together, so three beers and a couple of whiskey shots had him feeling more than a little out of it.

 

“He told me it was a trick,” John slurred slightly on the last word.

 

He reached for the whiskey again, but Greg quietly grabbed it and moved it out of his reach.  “Maybe we’ve had enough for one night, yeah?”

 

“Okay.  I’m a little wasted anyway,” John said with a more pronounced slur.  “I guess I’ll just call it a night.”  John heaved himself up onto the couch from his spot sitting on the floor, pulling the afghan over him and burrowing into the cushions.

 

“Yeah, good idea.  Will you be alright?” Greg asked, rising to his feet.

 

“Doesn’t matter” John didn’t sound angry or defensive.  “Nothing matters now.”  Greg would have preferred angry or defensive.  Belligerent drunks he could handle.  Hell, even a boisterous, singing drunk could be handled.  Sad, mopey drunks were beyond his ken.

 

“It doesn’t matter if I’m alright,” John continued, clearly talking to himself.  “No one will have to worry if I’m alright much longer.”

 

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” Greg reached out to lay a hand worriedly on John’s arm.

 

John didn’t seem to notice, just burrowed deeper into the cushions, muttering to himself.  “I think it will be pretty soon,” he slurred as his eyes fluttered closed.  Almost immediately he was gently snoring as a horrified detective inspector stared down at him.

 

He’d had enough mandatory crises training to recognize a suicide risk when he saw it.  Maybe a quick sweep of the flat was in order.

 

He found nothing suspicious in the living room or kitchen so he made his way to the bedroom.  The dresser held nothing of concern, but then he opened John’s nightstand drawer.  “Shit.”

 

John’s gun and a full clip lay next to several full bottles of sleeping pills.

 

 _I’m in over my head here_ , he thought, rubbing a hand worriedly across his face.

 


	5. chapter 5

Greg’s mind went back to the night, about a month after Sherlock’s death, and shortly after his second weekly pub night with John, when Mycrofthad contacted him.

 

Well, abducted was more like it.

 

A sleek black car pulled up next to him as he was leaving New Scotland Yard for the night and a lovely young lady had requested that he get in.  As he started to refuse his cell phone rang.  The caller ID showed a blocked number.

 

“I wouldn’t ignore that if I were you,” the lady said, never looking up from her own phone on which she was typing rapidly.

 

“Lestrade,” he barked into the phone.

 

“Yes, Detective Inspector, I know who you are.  Please get in the car.  I think you will find we have a mutual interest to discuss.”

 

“Who is this?  Is this some kind of joke?”

 

“Oh, I assure you it is no joke.  Do you require assurances of your safety?  That would be tedious and time-consuming.  I had hoped to have this taken care of tonight, but I will wait if you insist.  At this time, I can only assure you that we both have the best interests of Dr. John Watson in mind.”

 

 _Wait a minute.  John?  Why is this scenario ringing a few bells.  Oh, right!_   John had told Greg about a few of the times Sherlock’s brother had swooped in and carried him off for a clandestine meeting.  Obviously it was Greg’s turn now _.  Well, lucky me._

Greg sighed, disconnected the call and climbed wearily into the car.  Within a short while he found himself alighting in front of a townhome, ushered through the front door and shown to a seat in the library, where he was offered a drink by the young lady who had finally stowed her cell phone away.

 

“No thanks, I’m good,” he replied.

 

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said as he entered the room, extending his hand for a firm handshake.  “So nice to see you again.”

 

“Err.  Have we met?”

 

“No, not officially, but I have seen quite a bit of you in my surveillance of Sherlock’s activities over the years. I am his brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

 

“Oh, of course.”

 

“I understand you have been spending time at the pub with Dr. Watson.  May I inquire if you plan to continue these weekly meetings?”

 

“Um, no offense, but…  Why would you care?  I was under the impression that you and John dislike each other.”

 

“I have nothing but the utmost respect for Dr. Watson.  However, I fear you are correct in your assessment of his feelings regarding myself.  Sadly, he has every reason to feel as he does.”

 

“OK.  So that still doesn’t explain why you care if I meet John at the pub.”

 

“Quite.  You do not have a drink,” he observed, quickly moving towards the bar.  “My staff has been remiss.  My apologies.  What will you have?”

 

“No thanks.  It was offered.  I said no.”

 

“If you’re sure.”  Mycroft poured himself a glass of Scotch and returned to take the seat across from Greg.

 

“As I said, Detective Inspector, I have noticed that you and Dr. Watson have met at the pub weekly for the past two weeks and I was wondering if you were planning to continue.  My hope is that the answer is yes and that you might see your way clear to relay information to me regarding his…shall we say, state of mind.”

 

“Look Mr. Holmes, I know that John despises you and blames you for Sherlock’s death almost as much as he blames himself.  I don’t think he would appreciate it if I reported our activities to you.”

 

“I would be happy to make it worth your while.”

 

“Are you offering me money to spy on John?”

 

“Let us say that I am simply willing to subsidize your weekly get-togethers and perhaps throw in something extra for your trouble.”

 

Greg’s ire, which had been rising since he climbed into the back of the black car,         finally erupted.  Standing abruptly, he skewered Mycroft with a steely gaze.   “John is my mate.  He’s going through a rough patch and I will be there for him.  I don’t need you or your money to make me do that.”

 

Mycroft returned his gaze, not bothered in the least by the venom he could clearly see there.  Standing slowly, he offered Greg his hand, saying, “I admire your loyalty.  I see why Sherlock respected you.”

 

Ending the handshake, Mycroft reached down to the table, pressing an intercom button and summoning the car to take the detective inspector home.

 

As he walked Greg to the door to see him out Mycroft spoke again as he pressed a business card into his hand.  “While you may think it odd for me to say this, please believe me that I am perfectly sincere.  If you ever have any concerns for Dr. Watson’s safety, even if you think it’s just a gut feeling with no justification, I implore you to let me know.”

 

Greg glanced down at the card in his hand.  It contained only a phone number – no name or other identifying information of any kind.

 

 He looked up at the man in confusion.  Was this the man who didn’t even care enough for his own brother to protect him from a criminal mastermind?  Why this sudden concern for his dead brother’s former flatmate?

 

“What are you saying?  Is John in danger?”

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, don’t think for one moment that Dr. Watson is not in danger.  His life has been on the line since he met my eccentric brother.  Sherlock died to prevent a tragedy – several tragedies, actually.  Much of the danger passed with him, but not all.”

 

“Is it even worth my while to ask you to explain what you just said?”

 

“Not in the slightest,” Mycroft returned with the ghost of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

 

“OK, then.  Well, thanks for your concern.  I’ll take care of John.”

 

“Thank you.  That is all I can ask of you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock paused in the doorway, unwilling to alert Mycroft to his presence just yet.  He had returned to London just that evening and made his way straight to his brother’s home, sneaking in past the difficult, but not impossible to bypass, security systems.

 

It had been six months since his fall.  Six months of deprivations and dangers as he strove to dismantle Moriarty’s web.  Only a few players remained in the game, the rest taken out thanks to Sherlock’s efforts.

 

It really hadn’t been that hard.  With its lynchpin gone, Moriarty’s web had unraveled fairly quickly.  A few of the key players had gone to ground, but Sherlock had flushed them out and eliminated them – handing them over to the authorities by way of Mycroft’s network of connections.

 

The last sniper had finally been identified – the one assigned to assassinate anyone the original snipers had missed, for whatever reason.  Sebastian Moran had been tricky to identify and was proving to be even trickier to catch.

 

Sherlock was fairly certain he was back in London, so back to London he also had returned.  He stood now silently just inside the doorway watching his brother.

 

Mycroft, sitting with his back to the door, punched a number on speed-dial and raised his phone to his ear.  He began speaking as soon as the connection was made, foregoing  his usual polite greeting. 

 

“It’s a Danger Night,” he said in a cool, emotionless voice.

 

“ _What?_ ” thought Sherlock.  He knew what danger night meant in relation to himself.  Mycroft had always had an uncanny ability to sense when Sherlock was on the verge of indulging in self-destructive behavior. 

 

Mycroft was so stupid.  He truly believed that just because he’d lost control a few times meant he should never use again.  Sherlock was perfectly capable, when he used only rarely, for the really tough cases, to control it.

 

But Mycroft would hear none of it.  How many times had he sent his goons, or, in the last few years John, to check on him and keep him on the straight and narrow?

 

 But who could Mycroft possibly be talking about now?  He didn’t even know Sherlock had returned to London yet.

 

“I appreciate your willingness to make this a priority.  I know you care about him,” Mycroft continued.  “How soon can you wrap up your current activity?”

 

 He listened briefly before responding with a sigh.  “Surely Scotland Yard doesn’t need the involvement of a Holmes brother on every case.  I would have thought this one was too simple, Gregory.  As clichéd as it sounds, clearly the butler did it.”

 

Ah, DI Lestrade was on the other end of the line, but why?

 

            “No, I have him under surveillance.  He is at his flat,” Mycroft continued.  “I’d say you have at least an hour, but don’t count on it.  All signs point to an imminent suicide attempt.   I think a personal visit from you is required, and do hurry.  This could be the night.”

 

            Lestrade responded, though Sherlock couldn’t hear what he said between the muffled sound of the phone and the sudden roaring in his head.

 

Mycroft ended the call without another word as Sherlock choked out, “John’s suicidal?!”

 

            Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closing his eyes.  “I didn’t hear you come in, brother.”

 

            “I didn’t intend for you to,” Sherlock said, quickly striding into the room, coming to a stop directly in front of Mycroft.  “What’s going on with John?  Why didn’t you let me know something was wrong?  You were supposed to be keeping him safe…keeping them all safe.  That was your job while I was away.”

 

            “And if you had known the full extent of Dr. Watson’s condition?  What then, Sherlock?  Would you have dropped everything and rushed to his side?  He is being watched.  He has been as safe as the British government can keep him, Sherlock.  Very few have the level of security that Dr. John Watson has, although he doesn’t know it.  But even MI5 can’t protect him from his demons.”

           

“How can he be suicidal?  What’s wrong with him?  Why would he be so foolish?”

 

“I do wish you had read the reports I prepared for you when he first moved in with you.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “It wasn’t necessary.  I could deduce everything I needed to know without reading what some hack therapist thought.”

 

“Maybe so, but if you had bothered you would have found that John was suffering from severe depression when you met and was quite likely suicidal then.  He may have saved your life two days after you met, but you undoubtedly saved his as well.  You gave him a purpose - a cause, if you will.  When you left you not only took that from him, but you left him with crushing guilt.”

 

“What would he have to feel guilty about?”

 

“Oh, come, Sherlock.  I know emotions are not your strong suit, but even you should be able to see it.  He thinks he failed you.  He blames himself for not seeing the signs that you were suicidal and for allowing you to trick him into leaving your side.”

 

As Sherlock tried to process what Mycroft was telling him, Mycroft studied him closely, weighing out the right words to say to gain the reaction he wanted.

 

“He’s taken your death quite hard.  But … it is a war.  The harm to Dr. Watson’s psyche is collateral damage.  Hit by friendly fire, so to speak,” he smirked at Sherlock as he finished.

 

“I did what I had to do.” Sherlock spat out defensively.

 

“Of course you did...”  Mycroft started before Sherlock spoke over him.

 

“John can’t be suicidal.  He’s stronger than this!  He’s better than this!  He’s a war her…….  Oh,” he said softly.  “I told John once that heroes don’t exist,” he looked at Mycroft with disbelief as the truth dawned on him. 

 

“But they do.”  Mycroft said softly.  “And he is yours.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Quite right.  But even heroes have their limits.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Don’t be coy.  How long has he been suicidal?”

 

“That’s unclear.  He returned to his therapist briefly after your ‘death’, but he quit going some time ago.  DI Lestrade has been meeting with him regularly.  Dr. Watson made some remarks that concerned him some months ago.  He searched the flat and located a loaded gun and a cache of hoarded sleeping pills.  I have been watching him very closely indeed ever since.”

 

“You’ve let this go on for months?  And you didn’t tell me!   I don’t understand.  It didn’t happen to him.  Why should it bother him?”

 

“Oh my dear brother; how many times have I told you that caring is not an advantage?  John cares – deeply.  He loves you, Sherlock.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.  John is not gay.”

 

“Unquestionably.  However, there are different kinds of love; or so I have been led to believe.  You and John are what some romantics might call soul mates.  You complement each other, and, in a sense, complete each other.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t argue with the logic.  He had come to fully understand how much John’s presence had grounded and balanced him in the last six months.  He had come to rely on John more than he had realized and he longed to return to their easy companionship.

 

He looked at Mycroft and was surprised to see him studying him with a look of, was that compassion?

 

“Only Moran is left.  If he suspects you are still alive John and the others become targets again.  Specifically John.   Maybe it’s time you went home.  Let John help you bring Moran down.  It won’t be easy, though.  Trust issues.  You’ve done a fine job of destroying his trust in you.”

 

“It’s too dangerous.”

 

“Danger is what he thrives on, Sherlock.  Don’t draw this out any longer.  There may not be time.”

 

“Moran could kill him.”

 

“What you’ve done to him is killing him   At least Moran will kill him quickly.”

 

The words struck Sherlock’s heart like shrapnel, but he couldn’t deny the truth in them.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

A familiar black car pulled up beside John as he walked from the tube towards his flat, on his way home from a rare trip out.  The door opened as it slowed to a stop and John resignedly stopped, but didn’t turn towards the car.

 

“What could he possibly want now?” he said without turning to look at Anthea

 

Surprisingly, Mycroft himself answered, “Get in the car, Dr. Watson.”

 

John turned towards him angrily.  “We’re done Mycroft.  We can’t possibly have any more business to discuss.  I said all I have to say six months ago.  Leave me alone.”

 

Mycroft didn’t answer, but John could feel the elder Holme’s eyes boring into him.  Realizing he is not going to shake the man, John turned.

 

Mycroft looked…different.  His usually smooth façade was gone.  He looked haggard and drained.

 

_What on Earth would have Mycroft Holmes looking like that?_ John wondered as he climbed into the back seat, Mycroft sliding over to make room for him.

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says softly, looking John in the eye.  “There is something you must see.”

 

They rode in silence to Mycroft’s townhouse and John meekly followed the man into the elegantly appointed home.

 

“So, this is where you live,” he said.  “Much nicer than the warehouses you used to take me to.  Bringing me home to meet Mummy are you?”

 

Mycroft acknowledged his attempt at humor with a tight smile, ushering John into the library where a fire burned brightly on the hearth.

 

“Please, sit down,” he said, indicating a chair by the fireplace.  “There is something you need to know.  This may come as a bit of a shock…” he trailed off into silence, clearly at a loss over how to continue.

 

A frisson of fear ran down John’s spine.  “It’s Moriarty isn’t it?” he managed to whisper.

 

“Hmm?  Oh, well, in a manner of speaking.”  Seeing John’s eyes widen in fear he continued quickly,  “Oh, he’s quite dead.”

 

“Then how?”

 

“Moriarty died the day Sherlock jumped.  Shot himself in the head.”

 

“I’ll say it again, then,” John said through clenched teeth, his shoulders straightening into a military bearing.  “How is Moriarty a threat now?”

 

“John, Moriarty died that day but Sherlock…did not.”

 

“What?” John murmured, not quite taking in Mycroft’s words.

 

_Sherlock didn’t die?  I saw him.  I took his pulse!_

“Do you remember what Sherlock told you in that phone call?”

 

Of course he did.  He remembered every word.  Slowly he replied, “He said it was just a trick…just a magic trick.”

 

_Oh, God.  Could he have actually meant it!?  Could it have been a trick?  What kind of sick joke is that?_

“It was a trick, John.  A dangerous, foolhardy trick – but a trick nonetheless.”

 

“I don’t believe you.  Sherlock wouldn’t have let me believe he was dead all this time.  Why would he do that?”

 

“I had to, John,” Sherlock said, stepping from his hiding place in a dark corner of the room.

 

John’s mind reeled.  _This isn’t possible_.  He couldn’t take it in.  Here was Sherlock; thinner and with a new haircut, but definitely, shockingly, alive.

 

“John, I owe you a thousand apologies….”

 

It was too much, John’s mind shut down and he gaped at the man, his mouth working but unable to form coherent sounds.

 

He stared at the specter of his dead best friend as his sight grew grey.

 

He awoke slowly to find himself on the settee with a very worried looking Sherlock holding a damp flannel to his head.

 

“Get off me!” John growled, swinging his feet over and coming to his feet.  Sherlock stood with him.

 

“John?” he said.  “Are you alright?  I knew it would be a shock but I never expected…”

 

He didn’t see the punch coming as John hit him, not taking care to avoid his mouth this time.

 

Sherlock reeled back as Mycroft grabbed John’s arm, preventing him from landing a second blow.

 

“No, it’s alright, Mycroft.  I deserved that and more,” Sherlock said, rubbing his aching jaw.

 

John stood panting as the anger drained from him to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of joy.

 

“Sherlock?” he finally managed to choke out.

 

“Yes, it’s really me,” Sherlock replied quietly, as if afraid John would spook.

 

“Oh God, Sherlock,” John rubbed his face with his hands before throwing his arms around the man and hugging him tight.

 

Sherlock returned the embrace, hesitantly at first, but then firmer as he murmured, “I’m so sorry, John.”

 

John disengaged and returned to the settee, fixing Sherlock with a hurt look.  “Why?  Why would you do that to me?”

 

“John, there was no other way.  Moriarty had a sniper trained on you.  If they didn’t believe that I jumped – and died – they would have killed you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.  Before he killed himself there was a chance I could have made him call them off.  But when he died I had no choice.”

 

“OK.  But why continue the ruse for so long?  You could have told me.  Do you have any idea what you’ve put me though?  Put all of us through?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s it?  That’s all you have to say?  Six months, Sherlock.  I know you have no understanding of human emotion, but this is a lot, even from you.”

 

“It took longer than I thought,” Sherlock said, never taking his eyes from John’s.

 

“What did?  Moriarty was dead – what kept you back?”

 

“The snipers had the order.  If they even suspected I was alive they had the all-clear to execute you,” he took John’s hand, desperately trying to make John see the validity of what he is saying, as if he could transfer the thought by touch.

 

“I’ve been dismantling Moriarty’s web.  I’ve tracked down every one of his partners and turned them over to Mycroft.”

 

“Wait.  Mycroft knew?  All this time he knew you were alive?  You bastard!” he said, swinging to face Mycroft, murderous rage on his face.

 

“A prudent deception, Dr. Watson.  I regret the necessity.”

 

“Shut up!  Just shut up!  I didn’t think I could hate you any more than I did.  Once again I’ve been proven wrong.”

 

“I can only apologize.  It was necessary.”

 

“Piss off!  OK!?  Just…piss off.  I want to go home now.  Call the car and get me home.”

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was pleading as he placed a placating hand on John’s arm.

 

John shook him off violently.  “No!  No, Sherlock, I can’t do this now.  I can’t…talk to you.  I can’t even look at you right now.”

 

Swinging back to Mycroft he demanded, “Take me home.”

 

“Very well,” Mycroft said, reaching for the intercom and summoning Anthea.

 

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed.  “John, you have to listen to me.  You’re still in danger.  The last of the snipers is still out there.  I need your help to track him down.”

 

John was incredulous.  “No.  You can’t just waltz back into my life and ask for my help like nothing happened.  It doesn’t work like that.  Just…no.  Alright?  Please, just let me go.”

 

He let himself out of the library, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock took a stumbling step after him but was stopped by Mycroft’s hand on his arm.  “Let him go, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.  “He needs time to adjust to this new reality.”

 

“But, there may not be any time!  Moran could be planning to strike at any moment.  I need to stay with him and keep him safe, don’t you see?”

 

“Trust issues, remember?  I told you this wouldn’t be easy.”

 

“I remember.  I had just hoped…”

 

“Yes, well.  He is closely guarded and Moran still doesn’t know you are alive.  John should be fine for the time being.”

 

“But...”  Sherlock began as he stood at the window watching John climb wearily into the back of Mycroft’s car.

 

“No buts, brother,” Mycroft interrupted, joining him at the window. “This is best.  You had to expect he might react this way.”

 

“Yes, I suppose,” he said as his hand reached into his shirt to grasp the metal tags still hanging around his neck.  “You’ve kept him safe so far.  Don’t let me down now.”

 

“I won’t”

 


	8. Chapter 8

_Please John.  Let me explain_.  SH

 

John ignored the text, as he had the 50 or so before it, shoving the phone into the sofa cushions to muffle the sound.  Even with the ringer off, the phone’s vibrations were annoying.

 

“Why won’t he answer my texts?” Sherlock fumed to Mycroft.  “It’s been 16 days.  Surely he’s had time to adjust by now.”

 

“These things take time, brother dear.”

 

“Hmph!” was Sherlock’s only response before thumbing out yet another text appeal to John.

 

Sherlock had been sequestered in Mycroft’s home for nearly three weeks, pacing like a caged animal and growing more and more anxious to find Moran and reconcile with John.

 

The fact that there was still no sign of Moran only increased his anxiety.  He spent much of his time watching CCTV footage of John’s street, or of John himself, taken on the rare occasions that he ventured from his flat, desperately searching for signs that he was being followed or watched.

 

“Moran must suspect something is up,” he said to Mycroft one evening.  “The arrest of all of his cronies cannot have escaped his notice.  I’m sure he’s here.  Why can’t you find him?”

 

“He seems to be biding his time.  This waiting game is no doubt wearing on him as well.  The network he inherited is nearly destroyed.  He’s no doubt waiting for some indication that you are, as he suspects, still alive.”

 

“This is untenable.  I want this ended.  I want my LIFE back!” Sherlock nearly shouted, frantically pacing and running his hands through his already disheveled hair.  “I wish Moriarty were alive so I could watch him die again.  I want to kill him myself.  I want him to suffer for taking my life, my WORK, my friend from me!”

 

 “Oh, my dear brother, revenge is an incredible motivator.”

 

Sherlock’s frenetic pacing stopped abruptly as he threw himself onto the settee.  The look on his face was one Mycroft had never seen there before.  If anything, Mycroft would say his brother looked… lost.

 

“Sherlock?” he began, taking a step towards him.

 

Sherlock looked up at him with a look of despair and said slowly,  “Mycroft, I just want to go home.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft said uncomfortably, looking away from his brother.

 

__________

 

For his part, John had carried on as usual, ignoring the regular texts Sherlock sent him, begging his forgiveness and for a chance to explain.

 

In fact, John exhibited no visible change in his routine at all.  He even continued his drinking dates with Lestrade.

 

Lestrade remained unaware of Sherlock’s return, but he noticed a definite change in John.  He seemed angry rather than morose when they talked.

 

John had received and ignored a number of texts during the course of the evening, but Greg didn’t ask what they were about.  If John wanted to be secretive that was his business, but when John’s phone buzzed for the tenth time in two hours he shot him a quizzical look.

 

John read the text and let his head fall back against the cushions of the couch on which he was sitting. 

 

Greg looked curiously at John, who studiously ignored him.

 

 _Begging.  The great Sherlock Holmes is actually begging_.  John sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

 

“Shit,” he mumbled.  _Why doesn’t the mad bastard get it?  I’m done_. 

 

“What is it?” Greg asked softly.  John had been acting strangely for weeks now and he was concerned.

 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” John asked him cryptically.

 

“No.  What’s going on?”

 

“It’s Sherlock.”

 

“What’s Sherlock?”  Greg was concerned.  Had John finally lost it entirely?

 

“Sherlock’s back,” John said, looking Greg in the eye.

 

 _Is this some sick joke_? Greg wondered.  John certainly looked slightly deranged.  “What?” he finally said.  “Are you telling me his ghost is texting you?”

 

“Sherlock… he’s alive.”

“Look, mate.  I know you want him back, but you’re scaring me a little here.”

 

“No, really.  He faked the whole thing.  Mycroft kidnapped me a couple weeks ago and took me to him.  He tried to feed me some bullshit about having to fake his death to save my life.  Oh yes, and yours as well.  And Mrs. Hudson, too.”

 

Greg was speechless.  “I need another drink,” he finally said, reaching for the bottle at his elbow.

 

“Yeah,” John agreed, holding his glass out for a refill as well.

 

“So what’s he been up to, then?  Did he just run off on a lark like he always used to do?  Without telling anybody?”

 

“Oh, he told Mycroft.  And probably Molly,” John said bitterly.  “The more I think about it the more I think she must have been involved.  She did the autopsy after all. There’s no way she wouldn’t know Sherlock if she was cutting him open.  I always wondered why she insisted on doing it when she was so attached to him.”

 

“Shit.  So he’s texting you right now?”  Greg’s own anger was building.  Did Sherlock know the extent of the shit storm he had had to deal with following his death?

 

 “Give me that” Greg demanded, reaching his hand out for John’s phone.  He quickly scanned the most recent texts.

 

 _You absolute bastard!_   GL, he typed rapidly, hitting send with an angry jab of his finger.

 

“Oi!  I’ve been ignoring him!” John exclaimed.

 

“Well, I admire your restraint. Sorry I can’t match it,” he said as the phone pinged with an incoming message.

 

 _Lestrade,  I’m glad you are with John.  He needs a friend.  I just wish it could have been me these last six months.  Please ask him to meet with me_.  SH

 

 _Why should I_?

 

 _I owe you both apologies and explanations_.  SH

 

_Yes, you do._

_Please. John’s life is still in danger. Most likely yours as well.  I must explain._ SH

 

Greg showed the texts to John.  “Well, what d’ya think?”

 

“Are you crazy?  What is there to explain?  He left us.  He made us think he was dead.  He made me bloody well watch him die!”

 

“I know, but John… if your life is in danger maybe we should hear him out.  It can’t really hurt at this point, can it?”

 

“I don’t want to hear more lies.”

 

“Sherlock is a lot of things – and a lot of those things aren’t good, but unless it was for a very good purpose I’ve never known him to be a liar.  Deceitful as hell on occasion, but never a bold-faced liar when it mattered.”

 

John sighed deeply before responding slowly, “You really think I should hear him out?”

 

“Yeah.  I reckon so.”

 

“Fine.  Hand it over.”

 

 _OK.  Explain._   JW, he sent.

 

 _Not this way.  Please.  In person._   SH

 

_Fine.  Come on over._

_I can’t go there.  Moran might see me.  Neither can you come here.  Let me think.  I’ll be in touch soon._ SH

 

“Who’s Moran?” John asked Greg who responded with a shrug.

 

It was two days before John heard from Sherlock again.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Contact will be made soon_. _SH_

 _Well that’s not cryptic at all_ , thought John as he typed out his response.

_Why don’t you just have Mycroft pick me up again? If I’m being watched they would have already seen me go to Mycroft’s three weeks ago. J_

_Exactly why we can’t risk it again. M has met with you off and on since my… well, since I left. But never this often. It would arouse suspicion. SH_

_I’ll be in touch soon. SH_

The next day John received another text.

_Why don’t you go for a walk? The park is nice this time of year. SH_

_OK then, nice walk in the park_. John slipped his jacket on and headed towards the park with no idea what to expect. Surely he wouldn’t meet Sherlock somewhere so public.

John headed out his front door and turned left, heading for the only park within walking distance of his flat. The quickest route led him through a small shopping district popular with the younger crowd and populated with an inordinate number of coffee shops.

His mind a million miles away, John didn’t notice Molly Hooper until she placed her small hand on his arm and greeted him with a shy, “Hello, John.”

“Molly. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. How are you?”

“Oh, no worries, John. It’s nice to see you again.”

John had only seen Molly a few times since Sherlock’s death, and their conversations were always stiff and uncomfortable. Despite their medical backgrounds Sherlock was the only thing they really shared in common, and neither really cared to discuss him.

“Um, so John, would you like to grab some lunch with me? I’m working on a research project at a lab around the corner and just snuck out to get a little something. We could eat there and I could show you my work.”

“No, thanks though Molly. Maybe some other time.” And with that he patted her shoulder and continued walking towards the park ignoring her small “Umm” as he walked away.

The park was rather small so John took a seat on a bench to wait for Sherlock. _Maybe he’ll come in disguise_ , John thought. _This is much too public for a regular meeting_.

A text message brought his attention to his phone.

_John, why did you decline Molly’s invitation? Are you being deliberately obtuse? SH_

_Excuse me?_

_Molly invited you to lunch. You were supposed to accept. SH_

_You arranged that? You could have just told me, you know._

_I had hoped you would understand what was going on! I’m trying to arrange a face to face meeting. Please be more alert next time. SH_

_So are you telling me I should just accept the next invitation that comes along? No matter what? What if it’s NOT actually you? How would I know? What if some woman comes on to me at a shop and invites me back to her place to have her way with me? Maybe she’d take me to you. Maybe she’d knife me and steal my wallet. Maybe I’d have an evening of great sex. Actually, two of those don’t sound so bad._

_Fine. Point taken. Give me a bit of time to think of something else. SH_

Another three days with no word from Sherlock had John on edge. With a sigh he laid the book he wasn’t really reading anyway on the arm of his chair and headed to the kitchen to make tea when the familiar ping of an incoming message finally sounded.

_221B Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

_Could be dangerous. SH_

_Of course,_ John thought with a small grin as he headed to his bedroom to retrieve his gun. _Mad wanker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:
> 
> I realize John seems to forgive Sherlock awfully quickly here, but that is canon. I mean, seriously, have you read the stories? Your best friend in the world lets you think he’s dead for three years and, once you get over the initial shock, you’re just like, “Wow, neat trick, Bro. Now what?”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome! I would love to hear what you think.


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